“Take whatever price needed to clean this up,” he told him, gesturing to the bag of coins tied to Temaryn’s waist. “Give what is left to the next servant of Karak who comes.”
The tavernkeeper, an overweight man who was sweating with fear, only nodded. Darius retrieved the head and put it back atop the body, using the weight of Temaryn’s shield to hold it in place.
“The next you see me, I will not be the shamed, lost paladin,” he whispered. “I will be a prince of Karak, a wayward son returned home. The Stronghold has twisted what we know of him. It has lied, and tricked me out of his blessing. My faith is strong. I will fight the chaos of this world, until Karak himself must speak my name and acknowledge my deeds. Pray no more brethren try to stop me.”
He kissed Temaryn’s forehead, placed a coin atop it to pay for his meal, and then left the tavern.
1
A sharp pain woke Jerico from his restless slumber. Delirious, he looked about, confused as to where he was and where he was going. The ground was in motion below him, but he felt unable to move. Tied? Not tied, he realized. He was in a net made of thick rope. That was a strange place to be.
“Why am I in a net?” he asked aloud.
Something hard struck his head, and he screamed. Colors danced before his eyes, and someone spoke, though the words were just a jumble compared to the ringing in his ears. Shaking his head, he tried to remember. He’d been traveling in the North, alone on the road, when he’d met an old man. Except it hadn’t been an old man, he’d been…
“Hey, Bellok, he’s awake again.”
Jerico twisted his head to stare through the gaps in the net. There was the older man, though not as old as he’d first looked. His hair was nearly white, but he walked with his back straight, and his skin wasn’t wrinkled. He carried a staff in hand, and he waved it at Jerico.